


A Girl Called Elise

by Joodiff



Category: The Avengers (TV)
Genre: Adult Content, F/M, Family, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 06:30:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1090718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joodiff/pseuds/Joodiff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Mrs Peel arrives at Steed's apartment unexpectedly she is somewhat irked to find he has a young female guest...<br/>(Some <span class="u">adult content</span>; don't like, don't read.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Girl Called Elise

**Author's Note:**

> Another story from the archives. Written back in 1999 and originally available via the _Steedophilia_ site.

**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

* * *

 

**A GIRL CALLED ELISE**

Joodiff, 1999

* * *

 

Emma took the corner of Rochester Row too fast. The tyres of the little Lotus Elan squealed, but the sports car was a thoroughbred, and it held the road despite her recklessness. Luckily, it was very late, past one in the morning, and in the heart of Westminster, there was no traffic. Only an impatient young woman in a fast, jaunty little car, and the silence of a well-heeled residential area sleeping. Emma Peel put her foot down and shot down Horseferry Avenue towards the Thames. Before she reached the river, she would make a tight left turn, but she didn’t yet slow down. She knew the route too well.

She doubted that Steed would have retired for the night. Steed was a night owl, and though he would long since have come home from an evening at his club, it was unlikely that he had stirred from the couch in the living room. He was probably on his second or third brandy, enjoying a good cigar. Not even aware of doing it, Emma slowed imperceptibly as the signs for Lambeth Bridge appeared ahead. She drove automatically, her mind on far more interesting things. After an evening with good-hearted but tedious friends, the prospect of Steed’s company was even more inviting than usual. She had almost - _almost_ \- forgiven him for finding himself previously engaged when she had suggested that he, too, should take dinner with the Wright-Larsons.

Steed. Stray visions flickered through her mind. Exciting visions. He wouldn’t object for a moment when she pulled his tie loose and unbuttoned his shirt. He never did. Emma could picture, quite clearly, the look in his eyes. Wry, amused and simultaneously aroused. Years older, years wiser, Steed was assuredly vain, but he was level-headed, too, and she knew it amused him that she manifestly couldn’t get enough of him. Amused him and flattered him. Emma was wise enough herself to realise that her obvious and continuing interest bolstered Steed’s already healthy ego, but she knew, too, that he was genuinely fond of her, and that he fully appreciated _all_ of her qualities.

He was a good friend. Apart from everything else, he was a very good friend. Intelligent, witty, cultured - a very civilised companion to have. Good-natured, too, John Steed. Easy-going and adventurous. Fun. Not the sort of man Emma could have poured her heart out to; but even Steed, who was as big and bluff an Englishman as she had ever known, was quite capable of putting a heavy, reassuring arm around her shoulders before she even realised she needed it. Perhaps... just perhaps, there might one day come a day when they decided that their future did, indeed, lie together. Until then... Well, they just wandered along the same path together, pretending that they just happened to be going in the same direction. Travelling companions.

Westminster Mews was one of those quiet Georgian streets that had never quite stepped into the twentieth century. The few cars parked on the cobbles looked anachronistic, and it was hard to believe that the light she could see shining in Steed’s apartment came from an electric lightbulb. If a horse and carriage had come rattling down the quiet street, Emma wouldn’t have been unduly surprised. There wasn’t anywhere in London more suitable for John Steed, who often gave the impression of being a man born at least a century out of time. Steed should have been a cavalry officer at Waterloo, not a secret agent. Or whatever euphemism he liked to use for what he did for a living.

Emma parked the Lotus beneath a jarringly modern street lamp, alighted nimbly from the low driving seat and walked across the cobbles to the anonymous front door opposite. Edwardian developers had made half a dozen apartments out of a single Georgian terrace, and right at the top of the building, comfortably snug up in the eaves, Steed lived in considerable bachelor style. Emma climbed the internal stairs quietly. Most of Steed’s neighbours were rather reactionary, and Emma chose, haughtily, not to advertise her presence to them. Civil servants, most of them, and a retired Colonel who tended to address Steed as he would once have addressed his adjutant. Having witnessed Colonel Baxter’s manner first hand, Emma wasn’t surprised that Steed, who had never quite thrown off the ingrained discipline of eight years in the British Army, very nearly forgot himself and saluted the man whenever they met on the stairs.

A very unremarkable front door stood between Steed’s lair and the world. A front door to which Emma had the key. She knocked out of habit, turned the key in the lock and stepped into the apartment, calling, “Steed...?”

There was a girl on the couch. A very beautiful, very long-legged girl with tumbling dark curls. A scandalously young girl, younger by years than Emma herself, who, at twenty-seven, was hardly middle-aged. A girl who had to be at least twenty years John Steed’s junior, and who was remarkably scantily clad. It didn’t escape Emma’s notice that the girl was wearing an over-sized male shirt that could only have belonged to Steed. Shock prevented the outraged outburst the situation deserved.

The girl, who had visibly jumped at Emma’s unexpected arrival, got slowly to her feet. She eyed Emma warily as she said in a soft, husky and definitely accented voice, “He’s in the shower... can I...?”

French, Emma thought. An instinctive, racial dislike flared momentarily. The fighting spirit of Agincourt and Waterloo rose. So, the girl was very young, very pretty, very under-dressed and very French. And Steed was in the shower. At half past one in the morning.

Icily, Emma said, “It’s obviously an inconvenient moment. Please don’t trouble yourself.”

The girl blinked, as if totally bewildered by Emma’s cool hostility. Sounding disconcerted, she said, “I can call him for you... Or you can wait - he won’t be very long...”

The girl’s English was impeccable. If it hadn’t been for the accent, Emma would have said she was a Chelsea girl - rich, educated and spoiled. There was only one explanation for her presence in Steed’s apartment. And it had everything to do with her state of dress and Steed’s late-night ablutions.

“No,” Emma said coldly. “Just tell him... Tell him Mrs Peel called by. And she wasn’t prepared to wait.”

“Mrs Peel?” the girl said in a slightly odd tone. “But -”

“I’m sorry to have disturbed you,” Emma cut in. “It was obviously foolish of me not to have telephoned first. Good night.”

...and in the best theatrical tradition, Emma swept out, slamming the door behind her.

-oOo-

Steed heard the door slam above the drumming noise of the water. Indeed, he suspected that everyone in the building had heard the door slam. Door-slamming was never a good omen. Particularly where women were concerned. He shut the water off quickly, ran a hand through his wet hair and stepped out onto the bath mat. Towels that should have been dry and neatly folded were lying around in damp disarray. He gritted his teeth, told himself that bachelorhood was indeed a blessing, and wound the largest of the towels around his waist. As an afterthought, he went and fetched his dressing gown from the bedroom, too, before heading for the living room.

Elise was sitting on the couch, smoking a cigarette. She looked up, her green eyes holding a faintly disconcerted look. In English, she said, “You heard the door slam?”

“I should imagine the whole street heard the door slam. What on earth’s going on?”

A characteristically Gallic shrug of the slender shoulders. “Cherchez la femme.”

“Quoting Dumas is unnecessarily cryptic. Doubly so at this time of night,” Steed told her with some asperity. “What happened?”

“You had a visitor. Mrs Peel. You didn’t tell me she was so attractive.”

“Mrs Peel?” Steed said, genuinely perplexed. Emma? But what on earth... A dawning suspicion made him ask, “Elise, please tell me that you managed to avoid any... misunderstandings? Regarding your presence here?”

“I didn’t,” the French girl said, “get the chance.”

Steed looked at her. She really had grown up into an exceptionally beautiful woman. He could see her mother in her, in the high cheekbones, the full, pouting mouth. Only Yvette had been as strikingly, eye-catchingly blonde as her daughter was brunette. The flash of infuriation dwindled away. Steed simply didn’t have it in him to be angry with Elise. He shook his head, said pointedly, “Put that cigarette out.”

“Why?” Amused and challenging at the same time. Elise had always been stubborn. Strong-willed.

“I don’t,” Steed said, “approve.”

She laughed, an infectious, gentle sound. “You’re so conservative. Are you in love with her?”

Steed almost winced. Trying not to sound too curt, he said, “What did she say?”

“Very little. Just that she wasn’t prepared to wait.”

There was no doubt about it, Steed thought gloomily. Emma Peel had taken one look at Elise and jumped to entirely the wrong conclusion. Which left him with not just one, but two feisty women to deal with. It was almost tempting just to turn his back on the whole situation and go to bed. Elise was watching him with a strange, startling intensity, just as she had when she had been a very small child. For a moment he could almost picture her as a little girl again. How was it possible that the tiny, tomboyish little scrap who had never been known to turn away from a playground tussle could have turned into such a beautiful, elegant young woman?

He sighed, once again ran a hand through his dark hair and said, “I’m going to have to go out for a while. I’m not going to be pleased if you’re not here when I get back.”

She gave him a limpid smile. “Don’t you trust me?”

“I mean it, Elise,” Steed told her sternly, “there’s going to be hell to pay from your mother as it is. I don’t want you disappearing. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly. Will you be home before breakfast?”

Steed ignored her and went to get dressed. It seemed like the best course of action.

-oOo-

“Go away,” Emma said to the locked door, and glared at it. “I don’t want to speak to you.”

Steed’s voice said wearily, “If you let me in, I can explain -”

“I’m not interested.”

Silence. Emma could picture him trying to decide on which strategy to adopt. After a long pause, he said, “It wasn’t what you think.”

“Of course not. I’m sure it was perfectly justifiable and utterly platonic. There must be a dozen reasons for you to have a naked girl in your living room.”

“She wasn’t,” his voice replied patiently, “naked. She’d just had a bath, that’s all.”

“That makes it all right then.”

Another pause, then, “I refuse to conduct this conversation through a locked door. Let me come in.”

Emma debated the idea. Face-to-face, she could have the satisfaction of looking at him as she heaped coals of fire on his guilty head. But it seemed dangerously like giving in to him. Flatly, she said, “No.”

She didn’t hear him sigh, but she was certain he had. His voice said, “Do you really want me to break the door down? It seems rather... unnecessary.”

“Not to mention childish. Just go away, Steed!”

“No. I know I owe you an explanation, and perhaps once you’ve heard it -”

“Go. Away.” Emma said, as her temper, which had merely been simmering, started to boil again. “I have no interest in listening to you trying to placate me. Good night.”

“I’ll pick the lock if I have to.”

Emma had already thought of that. She eyed the security chain thoughtfully, wondering if it could withstand Steed.

“Mrs Peel?”

She watched the handle turn. Moments later, she could hear him fiddling with the lock. She stepped back, well out of the line of sight the minimal distance afforded by the security chain would give him. The door opened a fraction, rather cautiously, then a fraction more, until the chain drew taut, preventing further movement. Clearer, Steed’s voice said, “This is ridiculous. Mrs Peel?”

Emma ignored him. There was a vague possibility that he would give in and go away. Very vague. Steed could often be bull-headed about things. Once he got an idea into his head, that was that. It rather looked as if she would get the confrontation she had almost relished only a short while before. There was a hefty thud from the far side of the door. A shoulder-hitting-wood sort of thud. Steed was over six foot tall, and proportionally well-built. Locked doors, especially flimsy apartment doors, didn’t cause him many problems. A second thud, louder and more forceful than the first. The hinges strained, and the chain shuddered. The third time he shouldered the door, the screws holding the chain’s fastenings sheared and the door flew open.

“Ah, there you are, Mrs Peel,” he said mildly. “Good evening.”

Emma tore into him, fully convinced that he deserved every irate, sarcastic word. She had thought they had an understanding, she declared angrily. Why couldn’t he just have been honest with her? What the hell did he think he was doing with such a young girl? Was he satisfied now? Did he realise that in her eyes, he had betrayed both her trust and her friendship? And just who the hell did he think he was, anyway?

Steed weathered it. He didn’t even attempt to argue. It made her even angrier, seeing him accepting the castigation so calmly, as if he simply wasn’t bothered by anything she had to say. Only when she threw a glass tumbler at him, did he actually move, whipping his head out of the way so fast that the tumbler smashed against the wall behind him, showering the carpet with shards of glass.

Only when Emma’s anger had burned itself out did he say quietly, “Perhaps I should go. I’m obviously not very welcome, just at the moment.”

Emma laughed so bitterly she almost cried. “At last he understands! Just get out, Steed.”

He walked to the door, then turned, his expression carefully neutral. Quiet, almost placid, he said, “I came here with the intention of explaining everything, but it seems rather pointless to try, just at the moment. But there is just one thing that you should know, Mrs Peel. Elise is my daughter.”

And then he was gone.

-oOo-

She was asleep when he got back to Westminster Mews. Curled up on the couch like a small child, mouth slightly open, hands wedged under the cushion supporting her head. Steed looked at her for a moment, then shut the front door quietly. She didn’t stir at all. Almost three o’clock now. No wonder she was fast asleep. So young, he thought, and so vulnerable. That afternoon, Yvette’s voice on the telephone had been almost hysterical with worry. Steed had attempted to soothe her, but his own attitude had been rather more phlegmatic and pragmatic. Looking at Elise now, Steed understood exactly how Yvette felt. _My daughter,_ he thought, and it wasn’t the first time in his life that he had suffered from the aching pangs of fierce parental protectiveness.

The war seemed so long ago now. And the person he had been then could have been someone else entirely. It didn’t seem possible that he had ever been the young British officer who had seen the liberation of Paris and the fall of Berlin. Days so far away in time that they seemed to belong to a totally different life. But he could still remember lying in bed with Yvette, listening to the marching feet of the British and American troops pushing on towards the front line. A brief spell of happiness in a grim and turbulent time. The posting to Brussels had been inevitable, as had the subsequent posting to Berlin. The war had ended, but the madness had continued for a long, long time.

Elise. Steed picked her up, and all she did was murmur softly and bury her head into his shoulder, as if she really was a little girl again. He carried her to his bedroom, laid her down and pulled the covers over her. She didn’t wake up, just curled herself back up, and carried on sleeping. Steed envied her her tranquillity. Weary and resigned, he went back into the living room and settled down to sleep on the couch.

-oOo-

Her father. Elise Galliard looked at him as he lay sprawled out on the couch, his shirt unbuttoned, a rumpled tartan blanket half over him. Soundly asleep, his head turned away from the morning sunlight. Not like Jean-Pierre at all. Not a bit like her quiet, intellectual stepfather. Jean-Pierre was a good and fair man, deeply fond of his wife and his three children, including his step-daughter, but Elise had always known that even if it had been Jean-Pierre who had tucked her up in bed at night, who had read her stories and taught her to ride a bicycle, her father was someone else entirely. Her father had been an exciting, roguish figure who had drifted in and out of her life apparently at random; a man who had taken her on brief, exhilarating holidays, who had bought her all the toys Jean-Pierre had gently denied her, a man who had once carried her high on his broad shoulders through the crowds at the funfair.

Elise was no longer a child. She was very nearly twenty, and surprisingly sophisticated for her years. Not only sophisticated, but intelligent and perceptive, too. She understood things that she had never considered in her childhood, understood things about duty and responsibility that should, perhaps, have hardened her heart against her feckless father - but hadn’t. Elise still adored him, still hero-worshipped him. It wasn’t fair to Jean-Pierre, but Elise loved her father with an intensity that the other man could never have competed with.

Yvette Ramon - her mother - had been eighteen. The Allies had liberated Paris, and a tired sort of euphoria had swept across France. John Steed had been a dashing young British Intelligence officer, posted at the chateau that had been commandeered as a temporary headquarters for both the British and American troops still flooding into the area. Every Friday and Saturday night, the townsfolk had held a dance in the bomb-scarred Town Hall, and every Friday and Saturday night the Tommies and the GIs had vied for the attention of the prettiest girls. Yvette had been amongst the prettiest, and she had very soon been walking out with a young Captain who was all too soon to be posted to Brussels, and then to Berlin.

The war, Yvette had told her daughter, had changed everything. Forever. Things were different, people were different. Thousands of French girls had given birth to the sons and daughters of foreign soldiers. Yvette had been luckier than some. John Steed had written to her from Berlin, swearing to come back with the sole intention of marrying her. Only the weeks had turned to months, and eventually Elise had been born in the convent where Yvette’s family had placed her - whether from shame or concern. A year later Yvette had married Jean-Pierre Galliard, who had been a soldier himself, and who understood the fortunes of war very well.

But John Steed had kept his promise to return. Elise never found out why it had taken him almost two years to do so. To her, it wasn’t important. She didn’t remember a time when there hadn’t been Jean-Pierre at home looking after them all, day in, day out, and John Steed appearing unexpectedly to see her. Doubtless some elegant financial arrangement had been reached, because Steed came and went more or less as he wanted, and even when Jean-Pierre was finally unable to work anymore due to an old war wound, there was no apparent drop in the Galliard household’s standard of living.

Elise was fond of Jean-Pierre, and she respected him. But he wasn’t her father. Her father was a tall, dapper Englishman who laughed easily and never seemed to get irritated with her boisterous independence the way Jean-Pierre did. He hadn’t even seemed particularly angry when she had turned up at his apartment the previous evening, having taken it into her head to visit him without telling anyone. Jean-Pierre would certainly have shouted angrily at her. Her father had simply shrugged philosophically and drawled, “I wondered when you’d get here. Your mother has been telephoning me hourly...”

He stirred slightly and Elise sat herself on the edge of the couch, waiting for him to wake up properly. He was her father, and she adored him. It was that simple.

-oOo-

Emma Peel slept very badly. Confused dreams kept waking her up, and every time she woke, her mind repeatedly replayed the events of the night. When she woke, just after eight, she woke sullenly, and she stayed lying in bed, staring at the bedroom ceiling. Sometimes, if she had suffered a night of bad dreams, she could simply roll over and curl herself against Steed’s warm, hard body, reassured by his solid presence. More often than not, what started as gentle comfort turned inexorably to heated passion. Not that morning. The space next to her was empty, and Emma was viciously glad.

It would, without a doubt, have been better if he had told her that her suspicions had been correct - that she had, indeed, caught him entertaining a pretty girl who had caught his eye. At least she could have made sense of that. Steed was an inveterate ladies’ man. Women liked him, and he liked them. It wasn’t unheard of for Steed to display a healthy male interest in a beautiful woman who found him attractive. Emma would have been able to understand an impetuous, meaningless infidelity. Eventually, she would have forgiven him for it. It had happened before. She hadn’t ever tried to claim that he was her exclusive property.

 _“Elise is my daughter.”_ The words tormented her, echoing endlessly in her mind.

Steed had always told her that he had never been married. Emma had never had any reason to doubt him. She knew him well enough to know that he was solidly wedded to his career. There was room for a mistress in Steed’s life, but not for a wife. Steed was eminently suited to the role of charming, attentive lover... but not to the role of steady, faithful husband. He was an attractive man. Handsome, wealthy, well-bred... Enough society women had pursued him with a view to dragging him down the aisle. None had succeeded. _“Elise is my daughter.”_

Emma was analytical by nature. The girl was French. She couldn’t have been older than twenty. Steed had served in France at the end of the war. The facts spoke for themselves.

If he had told her in the first days of their acquaintance, Emma would have been mildly shocked. No more than that. But she had known him for almost two years, first as a friend, then as a lover. Not to mention latterly as a professional partner. Two years. She knew he lied to her on occasions - more because he felt it necessary to protect her than out of fear of the reprisals the truth might bring - but to keep such a secret for all that time... It felt like the worst deceit imaginable. Shook her faith in her own judgement of him. Emma had always firmly believed that beneath his impudence, beneath his occasional roguishness, Steed was an intensely honourable man. That belief had crumbled overnight.

Steed had a daughter. A daughter whose existence he had concealed from Emma for two years. A guilty secret, held somewhere deep inside him in some place Emma had never touched. How could he have kept something so fundamental from her? To Emma, it was a terrible betrayal - a betrayal of trust, a betrayal of their friendship. If he could keep Elise’s existence from her, what else might he be hiding?

Emma was in her tiny, well-equipped kitchen making tea when the telephone started to ring, a little before ten o’clock. Instinctively, she knew it was Steed who was calling her. She just knew. Ignoring the harsh, repetitive ringing was a small, cold consolation.

-oOo-

At Westminster Mews, Steed replaced the receiver gently and sat back in his chair for a moment, looking at the walnut bureau in front of him. He had expected Emma to answer. Angrily, perhaps, but he had honestly expected her to answer. The stubborn refusal to do so caused him more than a little consternation. Elise appeared at the kitchen door, leaning a shoulder on the doorframe. Her expression was surprisingly enigmatic as she said, “Mrs Peel.”

“I suspect,” Steed said, putting his hands in the trouser pockets of the dark, conservative suit that matched his mood, “that the lady has not yet had sufficient time to calm down.”

“Poor Papa,” Elise said, with more amused irony than anyone of her tender years had a right to express.

Steed eyed her in a jaundiced fashion. There was no doubt that her poise and her maturity pleased him - most of the time - but he wasn’t altogether sure he approved of her impudence. He said, “Children -”

“- should be seen and not heard. Yes, I know.”

She spoke English idiomatically, as befitted one who had not only grown up bilingual, but who had completed her education not in France, but at an exclusive English boarding school. Only her accent, soft and pleasant, betrayed her antecedents. Steed had a horrible suspicion that if he allowed her out to roam Oxford Street alone, she would return with a pack of panting adolescents in tow. Not that he doubted her capacity to deal effortlessly with a battalion of moonstruck young men, but even so...

“Your mother,” Steed said conversationally, “is not remotely amused by your sudden desire to travel. In fact, I would go so far as to recommend that you avoid telephoning her for a day or two.”

“You’ve spoken to her this morning?” Elise sounded surprised.

“I have. You have Jean-Pierre to thank for the fact that she isn’t coming to London on the next available flight,” Steed told her. Yvette had been angry, almost unreasonably so, but Galliard had been as quiet and equitable as ever when Steed had spoken to him. Given the circumstances, Steed and Galliard had a surprisingly good, if cool, rapport, and between them they had agreed that Elise should remain in London for a few days, if that was what she wanted. Which only left the thorny problem of Emma Peel. Steed said, “I have to go out for an hour or two, but I’ll be back later to take you to lunch.”

“Why don’t I meet you in the West End?” Elise suggested brightly.

He knew that she knew it was a forgone conclusion that he would reluctantly agree. Hadn’t he always indulged her, right from the time when she had been a little girl swinging delightedly from his hand? Galliard had disciplined her, and Steed had spoiled her. Against his better judgement, he said, “All right. But I warn you -”

She didn’t wait to hear the warning. She was already winding her arms around his neck and saying, “The only thing is, the flight and the taxi used up every penny of English money I had...”

-oOo-

Emma had known he would arrive in person once he realised she had no intention of answering her telephone. Accordingly, she had planned to spend the day out of London altogether. She had friends in Kent who would have been delighted at an unexpected visit from her, and she had decided that it was far too long since she had seen them. Perhaps her subconscious wasn’t quite as determined, however, for it seemed to take her an age to get ready and do all the little daily chores that needed doing, and Steed was at the door before she could leave.

“Mrs Peel,” he said, when she coldly pulled the door open, “your telephone appears to be faulty.”

“What,” Emma asked him, in an icy tone, “do you want, Steed? I’m in a hurry.”

A slight, disarmingly tilt of the head and an imperturbable, “You’re angry with me.”

Emma stared at him, wondering if he expected her to answer the patently idiotic statement. When it seemed he wasn’t going to say anything else, she said curtly, “I can’t imagine why you would think that.”

“Natural perception. Can I come in?” He stepped neatly past her, making the question redundant.

Steed had audacity, she had to give him that. It seemed as if he wanted a showdown. Very well. So be it. Emma closed the door and stalked across the living room, ignoring him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, actually sounding rather sincere, “that you found out like that. About Elise.”

Emma didn’t look at him, just busied herself tidying papers that were already in perfect order. Coolly, “I’m sure you are. In fact, I’m sure you’re sorry I found out at all. You evidently didn’t want me to know.”

“That isn’t strictly true,” Steed said, walking across to the window and leaning himself against the sill. “There are just some things that are better kept... confidential.”

“Confidential?” Emma turned to face him. “What a convenient way of looking at it.”

There was a strained, difficult silence. Steed said, “Elise has two parents. The wishes of her mother must count for something.”

Emma saw a perfect opportunity and took it. “I’m impressed by your loyalty, Steed. It’s a shame it evidently didn’t extend to marriage.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched, indicating that the barb had struck home, but his voice remained smoothly neutral as he said, “It’s always unwise to pass judgement before being in full possession of the facts.”

“The facts,” Emma said, “appear to speak for themselves. Funny, I would never have believed that you were the sort of man who would behave so dishonourably. It seems I’m a poorer judge of character than I thought I was.”

Steed looked surprisingly relaxed, but there was a tautness in his voice that betrayed him. “You have no idea of how things were.”

“You’re right. But then it seems I’ve been kept in the dark rather a lot, doesn’t it?” Emma snapped, glaring at him. She still couldn’t believe that they had seen and done so much together, and all the time she had been innocently unaware of the secrets he had kept from her. She arched her eyebrows at him, “It’s always a surprise to discover that you really don’t know someone at all, someone you thought you were close to. An unpleasant surprise, usually.”

“I never,” Steed said, “lied to you.”

“No you didn’t. But then, it didn’t actually occur to me, once you had sworn to me that you’d never been married, to ask you if you had any children. Very remiss of me.”

“There was no reason to tell you,” he said, “and every reason not to. Or so I thought.”

“I find it hard to believe you were ashamed, Steed.”

“I’m not. Elise isn’t some guilty secret kept hidden away in the cupboard.”

“My mistake. I thought that’s exactly what she was?”

“You really think so little of me?”

Emma glared across the room at him, but despite herself, there was curiosity creeping into the anger. Slightly less antagonistic, she said, “I really don’t know what to think. I thought we were friends. I thought we trusted each other.”

“I think,” he said, in a quiet, steady tone, “that if you’d give me the chance to explain, you’d understand.”

She was curious, yes, but she wasn’t willing to be sweet-talked. And Steed was very capable of sweet-talking her. Sharply, “I’m really not interested. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m already late.”

He looked as if he was debating whether to try and win her round, but after a moment he straightened up and walked back across the room towards the door, picking up his hat and his umbrella before saying rather haughtily, “Good morning to you, Mrs Peel.”

Silently, Emma watched him leave, but it didn’t take long for her dark satisfaction to become a bitter sting.

-oOo-

It was nine o’clock that evening when she returned from Canterbury. Ideally, she would have stayed later with her friends, but in the last year they had become parents, and it seemed that the blissful days of sitting up talking through the night had gone. It didn’t matter. She doubted that Steed would try contacting her so soon after the morning’s altercation. For once she would probably have some free time at home on her own. It was an appealing thought, and she hurried up the stairs to her apartment, already planning the rest of the evening.

Elise was sitting on the floor outside her apartment door. Ski-pants and a loose black sweater did nothing to disguise a lithe but startlingly female figure. She got to her feet with the grace and poise of a dancer, her gaze never wavering from Emma’s face. She was the very last person Emma had expected to see, and the very last person she wanted to see. John Steed’s daughter, tall and willowy, with a mane of dark hair and legs that seemed to go on forever. Grudgingly, Emma had to admit that she was a very beautiful girl indeed.

Slightly disconcerted, slightly reluctant, Emma said, “Can I help you?”

“Mrs Peel,” Elise said, sounding confidant and fearless. “Elise Galliard. How do you do?”

Despite the French accent, there was something very English about her. Emma wasn’t capable of being rude enough to ignore the outstretched hand. She shook it lightly and cursorily. “A pleasure, I’m sure. What can I do for you, Miss Galliard?”

“I’m hoping,” Elise said, “that you can make my holiday more bearable. My father isn’t noted for his patience when he’s in a bad mood.”

“That’s very true,” Emma said grudgingly. She sighed. What could she do? Rather stiffly, “Won’t you come in for a moment?”

“I got your address from Papa’s address book,” Elise announced, following Emma into the apartment, “in case you were wondering. I’m rather afraid he has some idea I’m in Knightsbridge visiting my tedious cousins.”

“I see.” Despite herself, Emma was faintly amused. Elise, it seemed, had inherited more than mere poise from her father. “And I assume you would prefer him to retain that idea?”

“Actually, I would. If he thought I was roaming the streets, he’d shackle me to Westminster Mews. Old-fashioned.”

Trying desperately not to give in to amusement, Emma said, “You’re very forthright, aren’t you, Miss Galliard?”

“What you mean,” Elise said, “is that I’m rude. Would you mind if I smoked?”

“Go ahead. Would it be inappropriate to offer you a drink?”

“Because I’m just a child?” More than a little self-mocking. “A large Scotch would be nice. All whisky in France is foul. We just don’t have the knack. You’re very close, aren’t you? To my father?”

Emma poured a small measure of whisky and handed it to the girl. Simply, “Is that any of your business?”

“Not at all. I’m not my father’s keeper. But I’m not a fool. And I’m not a little girl.” A straight, artless look and, “I’ve been in London for just over twenty-four hours, and I seem to have caused no end of trouble already. I didn’t mean to upset the status quo. I just wanted to see my father.”

And suddenly Emma could see herself in Elise. Could understand the uncritical devotion, the quiet need to be loved and protected. Hadn’t she felt the same way about her own father? And not so many years ago, either. Elise was very self-possessed, but she was still young enough to need the security of a beloved father. However thoroughly capricious and feckless he was. She could still be angry with Steed and yet thaw towards his daughter. Quietly, she said, “It’s not your fault.”

Elise’s eyes were green, but they held exactly the same quizzical look as Steed’s. In fact, now Emma had the chance to study her properly, she could see Steed very strongly in Elise. The girl said simply, “If anyone has the right to condemn him, it’s me. And perhaps I did, for a while.”

Emma wasn’t sure where the words were leading. “But?”

“But what’s the point in blaming him for things he can’t go back and change? Should I wish that I’d never been born? That my mother had never met him?”

“Of course not. But I’m not quite sure what any of this has to do with me.”

“Aren’t you?” Elise’s look was so shrewd, so incisive, that Emma could have been looking at Steed himself. “He didn’t tell you about me, did he? You never knew he had a daughter, did you? And you hate him for that.”

“I don’t,” Emma said gently, but very definitely, “hate him. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Why? Because I’m a whole seven years younger than you?”

Emma winced. It wasn’t pleasant, facing the fact that her lover’s daughter was so close to her in age. Elise could easily have been her sister. Not a thought to dwell upon. Valiantly, she said, “It’s to do with trust...”

“You feel... betrayed? I wonder why he didn’t tell you, Mrs Peel.” Quiet, incredibly wise and world-weary.

Emma sat down and cradled her glass for a moment before looking up and saying, “You’re very like him, aren’t you?”

“So they say. ‘John’s daughter’. Never ‘Yvette’s daughter’. My mother always tells me I’m my father’s daughter.”

“And,” Emma said, finally allowing a slight, wry chuckle, “you are, aren’t you?”

Elise didn’t smile. “Yes, I believe I am.”

“Would you like another drink?” Emma Peel asked.

-oOo-

“We went shark fishing,” Elise said. “I was sixteen. Three days out on a yacht in the Med.”

“You didn’t enjoy it?”

“I would have done, if we hadn’t had father’s latest conquest in tow. What was her name? Veronica? Something like that. There are some things a daughter shouldn’t be expected to put up with. Veronica was one of them. But then, I don’t suppose she was thrilled about me being there, either.”

Emma laughed softly. “No, I don’t suppose she was.”

Elise was lying on the floor on her stomach, her glass and an ashtray in front of her. Stubbing out a cigarette, she said, “Forgive him. You might just as well. Everyone else has.”

“He gets away with too much,” Emma said, sitting cross-legged on the couch. “I won’t be walked over.”

“Emma, if you were the sort to let yourself be walked over, he wouldn’t be with you. Father has a penchant for assertive women, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“Oh, I’d noticed,” Emma said sardonically.

Elise said, “He was only trying to protect me. Having a secret agent for a father could be considered something of a liability.”

“So you keep telling me. But I still take it very hard that he didn’t think he could trust me.”

“It wasn’t like that. I’m certain it wasn’t. By the time he knew he could trust you, it was too late to say anything.”

“You’d defend him to the death,” Emma said, amused and yet ironic, “wouldn’t you, Elise? Whatever he did?”

“Because he’d do the same for me. Or for you. When I was a little girl, I never knew when I’d see him again. I spent all my time wondering when he’d turn up next. Sometimes I wouldn’t see him for months, but then he’d turn up out of the blue and take me off on holiday somewhere. My mother used to tell him over and over again that he couldn’t be so haphazard, so cavalier... but it never made the slightest bit of difference. On my sixth birthday I cried myself to sleep because my daddy wasn’t there. And a fortnight later he turned up in the middle of the night still in uniform. Heaven knows where he’d been or what he’d been doing.” Elise shrugged. “But it didn’t matter, because he was my daddy and I loved him. None of it mattered. He wasn’t a spy or a soldier to me... he was just my father.”

“You’re so philosophical about it,” Emma said, “I’m amazed.”

“Why wouldn’t I be? If he hadn’t cared, he could have stayed away forever. Or, once he’d seen that my mother was settled with Jean-Pierre, he could have quietly disappeared. But he didn’t.”

The more she talked to Elise, the less bitter Emma felt towards Steed. True, she was still wounded that he had never confided in her, but she had started to understand his reasons. Added to which, it was quite obvious that he adored his daughter... whatever the rights and wrongs of the whole affair. And that Elise adored him. Saw and accepted all his faults, and still adored him. There was a lesson to be learned there, Emma felt. A lesson about tolerance and understanding. Steed was Steed, and he wasn’t going to change. Adore him for everything he was, or walk away from him. Trying to force him to be something else was futile. And it had taken Elise to make Emma see it.

“He’s a good man,” Elise said simply, finishing her drink, “for all his faults.”

“You’re very wise, Elise,” Emma told her. “Far wiser than I was at your age. Whatever you decide to do with your life, I’m sure you’ll be a great success.”

Elise smiled slightly. “I hope so. I should be, given my teacher.”

Emma detected a certain note of humour beneath the words. A dawning suspicion made her ask, “Not... following in father’s footsteps?”

An easy shrug. “Why not?”

“He won’t,” Emma stated, knowing it was certainly true, “approve.”

“He doesn’t have to. And now _you_ have a secret to guard.” Elise looked up at the clock. “Can I stay here tonight?”

Bewildered and startled, Emma said, “Well... I mean, you could, but...”

“Well,” Elise told her pragmatically, “you won’t want me to be at Westminster Mews tonight while you’re making your peace, will you? And if my father sees how much I’ve had to drink...”

“I take your point,” Emma said gravely. And the complete absurdity of the whole situation made her want to laugh aloud.

-oOo-

“Mrs Peel...” Steed said, holding the door open and staring blankly at her. It was quite evident that he had been expecting someone else. It wasn’t difficult to guess who.

“Steed,” she acknowledged, coolly, but without any trace of ire. “You look rather pensive. Perhaps I should go away again?”

“No,” he said, flatteringly quickly, stepping back and ushering her in, “I’m delighted to see you. Though I admit that the pleasure is rather unexpected...”

With a real touch of devilment, Emma asked innocently, “Were you expecting someone else?”

He didn’t seem in the mood to banter. In fact, he seemed genuinely perturbed. Shortly, “Elise.”

“Ah, ha. Parental concern. I wouldn’t have thought you had it in you, Steed.”

“Mrs Peel, much as I normally enjoy your ready wit, I really do have other things on my mind. It’s past midnight, and my daughter seems to have vanished into thin air. My sense of humour is a little strained.”

The concern wasn’t feigned. Emma began to understand what Elise had said about her father’s enduring fear that if his enemies discovered he had a daughter who could be used against him... She lost the urge to tease him. Trying to sound utterly nonchalant, she said airily, “Well, let me allay your fears. Elise is perfectly all right. She’s at my apartment.”

“What?!”

Emma had never heard him sound so completely astonished about anything. She settled herself on the couch and said casually, “She may have a slight hangover in the morning, but aside from that, she’s fine.”

“A hangover.” Steed said. He sounded very much more like himself. He stood in the centre of the room, hands in pockets, looking at her with a carefully neutral expression. “Forgive me, Mrs Peel, but can I just clarify this with you. You’re telling me that my nineteen-year-old daughter, who until yesterday, you had never met, is at your apartment?”

“Yes.”

“Inebriated?”

“Not quite. But well on her way.”

With a mild, gentle courtesy, he asked, “You’ll forgive me if I ask you why?”

Emma met his placid gaze easily. “I wouldn’t, if I were you.”

“I see.”

There was a long silence, but though it was meaningful, it wasn’t by any means an angry silence. Eventually, Emma said, “For whatever reason, she took it upon herself to try and explain... things.”

“Did she now.”

“She’s certainly impetuous. Not to mention persuasive. I can’t think where she gets it from.”

Silence. Steed said, “I did what I thought was right.”

“Elise pointed that out.” Emma surveyed him for a moment longer before adding, “You should have told me. Not immediately, perhaps, but you should have told me. Didn’t it cross your mind that if I found out later I’d be... hurt?”

“I’m sorry. What else can I say? I was just trying to protect my daughter.”

 _All the wrong things for all the right reasons..._ Emma said, “Armed truce?”

“Best offer I’m likely to get at this stage, I suppose. I accept.”

“Good. Then I may let you apologise further.” Emma told him haughtily.

Ironically, Steed said, “Thank you, Mrs Peel. Which only leaves me with Elise. I suppose I’d better follow you back and collect her.”

“I wouldn’t. Not unless you’re ready to accept the fact that your little girl isn’t a little girl any longer. Nineteen going on thirty, that young lady. I hope you’re suitably proud of her.”

“More than you’d credit me for, I’m sure.” He canted his head slightly. “Drink?”

“Why not? Elise is going to bring my car over in the morning.”

“Elise is...?” Steed let the words trail, apparently analysing the statement.

“I came by taxi,” Emma said helpfully. “So it’s about time you started convincing me not to call another cab for the return journey.”

“My pleasure,” Steed said, “but there is just one thing.”

“Yes?”

“Elise isn’t used to driving on the left.”

“I’m certain you’ll pay for any damage.”

“I usually do, Mrs Peel,” Steed said, and his voice sounded hollow. “I usually do. One way or another.”

-oOo-

Emma had heard the bare bones of the tale from Elise, and if Steed didn’t go into much more detail than his daughter had, well, at least Emma had the chance to hear it from his perspective. What impressed her the most was Steed’s honest admission of his own guilt, of all the things that had driven him to seek out Yvette and his daughter long, long after anyone would have expected him to. He had been quite open about the fact that he had never intended to marry Yvette, that he had been too young and too confused to accept the reality of his moral responsibilities. It was quite obvious that it had been a stubborn sense of honour that had finally made him go back to France, honour and the knowledge that if he didn’t fulfil his obligations, he would never have been able to live with himself.

Evidently, he hadn’t been disappointed to find Yvette happily married to another man, but instead of absolving himself of any further responsibility, Steed had opted for a harder - and altogether more noble - path. Hearing his story, Emma, who had honestly despised him for a short time, eventually found herself admiring him. When he had been not much older than his daughter was now, Steed had made a mistake, but ultimately he had done everything in his power to atone for that mistake, and had continued to do so with every year that rolled by. Whatever had happened to him, however hard his life had occasionally been, Steed had never forgotten his daughter, had tried hard, in his own indomitable style, to be at least some kind of father to her. It said a great deal for his integrity and the fundamental nobility of his character.

In the end, he said candidly, “I’m not proud of what I did, Mrs Peel. There aren’t any excuses, and there’s no way to change the past.”

Emma was silent for a moment, then she said, “You’re a hard man, John Steed. Hard on yourself.”

Steed didn’t reply, simply stood at the window looking out at the night sky.

 _This morning,_ Emma thought, _I thought he was despicable, and now..._ “I only wish you’d told me sooner. That’s all.”

He turned round to face her. “Would it have made any real difference if I had?”

Emma’s instinctive reply died in her throat as she thought about the question. Then she said, “Who knows? I think I can understand why you didn’t - but that doesn’t alter the fact that you spent two years deceiving me.”

“And twenty years deceiving almost everyone else. How many people are there who know about Elise, do you think? A few close family members, half a dozen others. No more.”

Emma put her empty glass down. “That’s a hard way to live.”

“What alternative do I have?”

“None,” Emma said and stood up. “None at all.”

She saw the wariness in his eyes as she walked towards him. He wasn’t sure of her mood, wasn’t altogether convinced that her anger was long-spent. Emma stopped a mere foot away from him. At close quarters she could see the flecks of green in his grey eyes. Elise’s eyes were green. Emma wasn’t even eight years older than Elise. Elise who loved her father and was quite prepared to defend him ferociously. They could have been sisters. Steed was watching her with an absorbed, fascinated expression, still very wary.

“She instinctively knew,” Emma said softly, “didn’t she? That you and I were...”

“Lovers?” Steed said, and it was the first time Emma had ever heard him apply the word to them. “Of course she did. Elise has a very acute insight into most things.”

“Apparently so.”

He reached out to take her hand. “Are you going to forgive me?”

“I might. Eventually.”

It didn’t surprise her that it was Steed who took the initiative. There always came a time when he ceased to be insouciant, ceased to be so flippant and arch. He kissed her very gently and very thoroughly, and even if Emma had still been in the mood to resist, she might well have acquiesced. As it was she warmed into it, slowly at first, but with increasing enthusiasm. She didn’t know any other man who possessed the same unique blend of lazy sensuality and raw, erotic puissance. Her pulse was already racing when he drew back from her. His eyes looked smoky.

“Forgive me?” he said.

“No,” Emma told him, “but keep trying.”

It was a surprise that he undressed her there in the comfortable, old-fashioned living room. But Emma wasn’t disposed to object, not when he laid her back on the tigerskin rug and started to hunt hungrily over her body with his hands and mouth, still half-dressed himself. And not when he pushed her mercilessly into the shuddering, inside-out explosion of ecstasy for the first time. He raised his dark head from between her slim thighs, eyes now definitely smouldering with artful wickedness and genuine passion. “Forgive me?”

Emma heard the breathless huskiness of her voice as she said, “No.”

“No?” Steed asked her, and he sounded more than a little husky himself.

“Not yet...”

At some point the sensual game became even more intense. At some point Emma stripped him of his remaining clothing and resorted to certain intimate explorations of her own, lost in the feel of him, the taste and scent of him, descending down his body with slow deliberation until she reached his rearing hardness and planted hot, nibbling kisses up and down its impressive length. Lying over him, close enough for him to feel her breath on his taut skin, she said, “Are you suitably penitent, Steed?”

“Yes,” he said, his voice hoarse and strained.

“Are you sure?”

The hand cradling the back of her head exerted a little pressure, not forcing her, but making his wishes abundantly clear. The hard organ twitched, apparently involuntarily, and its owner said, “ _Emma_...”

It was enough. Steed would never plead, and Emma would never force him to. She opened her mouth, drew him in, her tongue flicking against him, and it was doubtful if she actually heard his groan of pleasure, she was so engrossed.

If it was insanity, then Emma was glad to be insane. Action and reaction blended together, suffused into an endless, timeless vacuum where nothing mattered but the touch of flesh and the heat of desire. Which of them did what was irrelevant, who urged who into helpless rapture was unimportant. It went on and on, until Emma couldn’t feel anything but Steed, until he was so thoroughly imprinted on her flesh that she was certain she would always be able to feel him.

She was on her hands and knees, and he was somewhere close behind her, a hand on her hip. Urgent, almost desperate, he managed a strained, “Forgive me?”

“Yes...” she said, hardly aware of voicing it, and then all she could feel was Steed, Steed locking his body to hers, becoming part of her, burying himself deep inside her. She fancied she could feel the pounding of his blood, could hear his heart hammering. This time there was no gentle, lingering play, this time he drove into her hard and fast from the start, and Emma gloried in it, crying out softly, clenching her hands into tight fists, gripping the thick fur of the rug and dipping her chest as she thrust back at him, seeking to impale herself even deeper. She doubted that he was aware of it, doubted he was capable of any rational thought.

“Steed...” Her own voice, sounding as if it was a million miles away. Her own voice sounding wild and ragged. “Steed...”

 _Coup de grace._ Pleasure so intense, so all-consuming that everything else so far appeared only to have been a pathway to it. Emma was certain she screamed, but if she did, she didn’t hear it, and she was still shuddering and her body was still contracting when Steed reached his own zenith, his body tensing as she felt the sharp, distinctive surges begin deep inside her. He cried out, short and choked, and for a moment she felt him shivering, as if with a fever.

They collapsed together in an impossible tangle of sweaty, immobile limbs, neither of them yet capable of any kind of directed movement, let alone of speech. It took her several minutes, but Emma recovered first, gently stroking the forearm curved around her chest. Short, silky dark hairs, a pale watchstrap mark. Hard muscles and tough sinews beneath surprisingly fine skin. She managed to expand her consciousness beyond that forearm, finally whispering, “Scoundrel.”

“Devoted scoundrel,” he said, his voice a deep, gentle purr.

Emma kissed the inside of his wrist and agreed, “Devoted scoundrel.”

His other hand was gently stroking her hip. “Forgive me?”

Why not? As Elise had said, everyone else had.

-oOo-

The doorbell rang just before eleven o’clock the next morning. Both Emma and Steed had been awake for several hours, but neither of them had actually got out of the wide, comfortable bed that dominated Steed’s bedroom. Emma was sitting astride him, relishing the feel of him inside her, but without any serious intent. Most of the morning had already been spent in heady, sensual play. She ran a finger down the narrow trail of dark hairs that ran from his chest to his groin, breaking at his navel.

“That,” she said wryly, “will be your daughter.”

Steed had been feigning sleep, despite the evident wakefulness of certain areas of his anatomy, and he opened his eyes lazily, “I expect it will, yes.”

“With my car.”

“Yes.”

A second, more impatient knock echoed through the quiet apartment. Emma looked down at him, then sighed and disengaged herself, “I’ll go and let her in, shall I? You just lie there and rest.”

Steed seemed to ignore her sarcasm. “Thank you.”

Emma shook her head, climbed off the bed and picked up enough clothes to preserve her modesty, climbing into them quickly. Then she went to admit Steed’s daughter into the apartment.

_\- the end -_

 

 


End file.
